Die Again Tomorrow (14 page)

CHAPTER 25

 

I
sabel stared at the contours of Richard's face. His skin was no longer tinted gray. Signs of life had returned in his pink lips, the black stubble pricking his chin, the twitching of his closed eyelids. She felt his forehead. It was warm. Anyone else might have mistaken his state for a peaceful sleep. The crisp bedsheets were pulled up to his chin, and his head had fallen to its right side on the pillow. His breathing was deep and even through his nose. But no matter how normal he looked, Isabel knew not to be deceived. If his mind was gone, then he was still just a body, albeit a living one.

In the three days since his emergency resuscitation procedure, she'd kept vigil near his body with competing sensations of awe and terror. The events over the last seventy-two hours were remarkable to witness. Even though she knew that reversing death was possible—that she, herself, was proof—she was still astonished to watch firsthand how far science had advanced in this hidden corner of the world.

When they first arrived on the ship, Dr. Quinn immediately took his corpse into surgery, pumping his stomach of toxins and clearing the clogged artery near his heart. Over the first twenty-four hours, as Quinn raised his temperature by a quarter of a degree Celsius every hour, Richard's pulse had returned—followed by faint brain waves. He briefly opened his eyes and let out inarticulate moans. Isabel panicked about his mental capacity, but Dr. Quinn reassured her that the drugs caused incoherence at first, and would wear off in two days.

Then it would become clear if he was doomed to a minimally conscious state—not dead, but not properly alive either. Isabel hadn't slept since, fearing Chris might have been right all along. She was grateful to him for cooperating with her pleas, but his warning echoed in her mind with the frightening ring of truth:
If he comes back brain-dead, that's on you.
How could she forgive herself if that was his future—one she had insisted upon against his will?

Would the Network be forced to support a shell of a man indefinitely? Would he have to suffer for the rest of his days? That would be intolerable, especially since he wanted to die in the first place. If he
was
brain-damaged, maybe they could withdraw life-sustaining nutrients from his IV, allowing him to die passively. But starving him seemed cruel. Maybe they could euthanize him with a painless injection? But then they would be killing him like an animal.

Each thought made her squirm more than the last. From her perch on a stool beside his bed, Isabel glanced at the clock on the wall. The time marked 4:35
P.M.
, almost exactly forty-eight hours since his initial awakening. If he was ever going to come out of his stupor, it would happen any minute now. The longer it took, the lower his likelihood of ever regaining normal brain function.

She tried to distract herself from the ticking clock on the wall by thinking about her mom and Andy. With Galileo's help, she had called them from the ship using a satellite phone and explained everything. Incredulous at first, but at last accepting, her mother agreed to Galileo's offer to move to the safe house until the mastermind behind her murder was found. As soon as the plan was made, her family packed up their things, closed up their house, and drove straight to their new address. From there, her mom would take every safety precaution—pulling Andy out of school, bringing him to work with her at the bookstore—until Isabel had an update to share. Her mom also did her the favor of contacting her television agent and the producers of
Wild Woman
to let them know she was extending her medical leave until further notice.

It was torturous on her family to be separated. But her mother complied without argument, since Isabel's only other strategy was to leave the Network and go to the official authorities, which risked Andy being found out and deported back to Cuba—his worst nightmare. At least at their temporary house, they were out of harm's way, so Isabel could worry about her other problems: Richard, her killer, and her own disturbing new symptom that she hadn't told anyone about yet.

A knock on the door startled her. Galileo and Dr. Quinn walked in, both wearing drawstring shorts and T-shirts, but their concerned expressions were far from casual. She greeted them with a nod as they somberly approached Richard's bed. They came to a stop on either side of her stool.

“No change?” Dr. Quinn asked her.

“None.” She sighed. “I've been watching him like a hawk.”

Galileo put a hand on her shoulder. “How are you holding up? Remember, you have your own recovery to focus on.”

“Your body's in a delicate state right now,” Dr. Quinn added. “We want you to cut down on stress as much as possible.”

She gave a snort. “Why not run a marathon while I'm at it?”

“I know it's hard,” Galileo said, looking from Richard to her. “But you're not alone. Don't think I've forgotten our deal.”

“That's great, but how can you find someone who doesn't want to be found?” She shook her head. “It's impossible.”
And I can't hide out here forever,
she thought.

Plain and simple, she was screwed. Staying here was only buying time until her inevitable return to the outside world. Even if she and her family permanently relocated somewhere—easier said than done—she'd always look behind her shoulder, wondering when the next hit was coming.

“I'm working out a strategy,” Galileo assured her. And then, without irony: “Trust me.”

She almost snorted again. That was like commanding a blind person to look. But she didn't expect him to understand how deeply she'd been scarred. Even the most brilliant scientist couldn't change the fact that the world was a dark place, crammed with disease and heartbreak and evil. Things didn't work out just because you wanted them to.

“Okay,” she said anyway, to humor him. “When will you start?”

“As soon as I've figured out the best approach. But in the meantime, we're worried about you. You've been holed up here for two days. Have you even slept?”

She said nothing, just kept her eye on Richard's chest rising and falling under the blanket. The clock read 4:51
P.M.
Any minute now,
she thought.
Come on.

Dr. Quinn cleared his throat. “Isabel, as much as we want to learn from your recovery, we're also here to help guide you through it.”

“I'm not exactly thinking about myself right now.”

“Understandable,” Galileo said, “but you should be. If you're having any side effects besides generalized weakness, it's important to tell us. Especially if something doesn't feel right.”

She hesitated. The symptom she'd started to notice was so strange and unexpected that she wondered if she was hallucinating it. The possibility terrified her—was she losing her mind? If so, she didn't want confirmation from the doctors. But she had to uphold her end of the deal, too.

“There might be one,” she began. She kept her eyes on Richard's sleeping face.

Dr. Quinn's white eyebrows shot almost to his hairline. “What?”

“I have this, like, sudden hyperawareness. Like my senses are on overdrive.”

Copping to it made her face burn; she felt like a freak.

“How so?” Galileo asked.

“Well, when we went to Richard's house, we couldn't get in at first, and then I heard the sound of his TV through a side window that was barely open. Chris didn't notice at all, but I did without trying. That's just one example. Even now, it's happening. I can't turn it off.”

The intrigue was palpable in Dr. Quinn's tone. “What are you sensing now?”

“You had a tuna sandwich for lunch,” she said, “before you brushed your teeth with peppermint toothpaste.”

He sank to the edge of Richard's bed. “How could you know that?”

“I smell it on your breath. And you think I didn't catch the look on your face just now, but I did.”

“What look?”

“Validation. You expected this, didn't you?”

Dr. Quinn exchanged a rueful glance with Galileo, who was still standing at her side. “You're right. I'm not surprised. In the dog trials, the X101 strengthened parts of the cerebral cortex involved with sensory perception.”

“So I'm not imagining it,” she said.

“Not at all. It shouldn't do any damage, but I can understand if it's unsettling.”

She let out a breath. “Will it ever go away?”

“It should, once your body metabolizes the drug.”

“How long?”

He rubbed his nose as a distant look came into his eyes. “We don't exactly know. We'll keep testing its concentration in your blood every day. My best guess is about two weeks.”

“I think some car was following the ambulance the other day,” she blurted out. As long as she was telling them her symptom, she might as well disclose all her fears.

Galileo's reaction was swift and fierce. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I thought the hyperaware thing might be making me paranoid. Anyway, I got rid of it pretty fast driving through red lights.”

“So no one saw you pull into the harbor?”

“I don't think so. But I can't go back out there anytime soon. Someone's definitely still after me.”

“Well, we can't stay here anymore,” he said, heading for the door. “Time for the open ocean.”

“I'm sorry.” She looked down at her hands folded tightly in her lap. “I don't want to complicate your whole operation . . .”

She saw by his grimace that it was already too late for that. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, another voice filled the room. It was hoarse, rasping—and utterly familiar:

“Where am I?”

Her head whipped around. To her astonishment, Richard's eyes were fluttering open. He was struggling to raise himself up on his elbows. She leaped off the stool to his side, with Dr. Quinn and Galileo right behind her.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “Richard?”

After a hazy moment, his eyes focused on hers. Then a grin of recognition spread across his face. “Isabel? Are we in heaven?”

Her eyes watered as immense gratitude overwhelmed her. “No, you were saved. We both were.”

His grin vanished. “No.” His head sank back on the pillow as if in defeat.

“You're alive,” she tried again. “It worked. You made it.”

“We're both alive?”

She smiled. “Yes. Thanks to these men.” She gestured to Quinn and Galileo.

Richard regarded them with a bewildered frown. “But I was supposed to die.” His tone grew panicked as he glanced back at her. “Or else you will.”

 

 

“She was never admitted to the morgue, sir.” The man spoke timidly into the phone. “There is no death certificate. No trace of her anywhere.”

“But you saw her
dead body
wash up on the beach!” snapped the voice on the other end.

“Then she must have come back to life.”

“Do you hear how idiotic you sound?”

“She's still alive,” the man insisted. “I told you, I saw her the other day, driving an ambulance for some reason.” He didn't add that he tried to trail her and was thrown off by her ability to speed through every goddamn intersection.

“Oh yeah?” The voice was a snarl. “I want hard proof. Your eyes don't count.”

“I—I don't have that, sir. She hasn't returned home since.”

“Then find her. If this is true, I want to find out exactly how the hell she survived.”

Just before the phone clicked off, the man cried out. “Wait! I do have something else you might find useful. Not about her.”

An exasperated sigh came over the line. “What?”

“Her family. After she disappeared, I went back to watch her house, and saw a woman and a boy leave with a couple of suitcases. But they didn't see me follow.”

“So you know where they went?”

“I'm watching their new house as we speak.”

There was a pause. “Get me intel on them. Maybe you're not so useless after all.”

CHAPTER 26

 

“Y
ou know, you don't look half bad.” Isabel smiled.

“For a recently dead guy.”

She was sitting at Richard's bedside in his cabin on the ship, two days after his return to coherence. He lay with his head propped up on two fluffy white pillows, his bandaged chest rising and falling with his breath. Though he seemed as fatigued as she'd been at first, she could tell his mind was razor sharp. He threw her a withering glance, despite the twinkle in his eye.

“You're looking a little gray yourself.”

“You've just never seen me without makeup.”

“Oh, is that all?” He cracked a smile. “We're in the same boat, babe. Literally.”

“Very funny.”

She cringed when she remembered that only a few days earlier, she'd been convinced that he was culpable for her murder. How badly she'd misjudged him! Now there could no longer be any question that he was an ally. He had died for her. It was such an extreme gesture that she almost felt embarrassed, especially given the feelings he'd laid bare in his diary. When she thought about what he'd written, in light of everything, she was struck with admiration. How many men these days were that committed to honor at any cost? The only other one she'd known like that had been her dad. She wished she could make it up to him somehow—or at least refrain from upsetting him. She was glad that since he was still mostly bedridden, he hadn't yet seen her and Chris flirting.

In the several days since his awakening, she'd filled him in on her murder, the Network, and the deal she and Galileo had struck. Richard was amazed by the drug and the doctors who had saved both their lives, and offered to give back however he could. So he was going to stay on the ship while they monitored his recovery as well as hers; two longer-term patients in the clinical trial were better than one.

He also insisted on helping Galileo track down the mysterious investor known as Robbie Merriman. His own guilt ran deep. He admitted that he'd been duped for years—selling his clients' “lives” to a professional voice over the phone, receiving prompt checks in return, never thinking twice. He was appalled to think of how many victims he might have sold to the man he'd believed was his best customer. And to think that his own suicide would have been a wasted attempt at appeasement; the sociopath was ruthless enough to target Isabel anyway.

Now she was trying to distract him from his anger, since there was nothing he could do at present but focus on his own recovery. But there was a niggling confession she felt she owed him. It slipped out before she could stop herself.

“It was my fault,” she said. “Your resuscitation. I made them do it.”

His eyes locked on hers. “Fault?”

“I mean, my . . . doing. I've been terrified you might end up brain-dead because I forced Chris to give you the X101, even though you wanted to die. I made him go against your wishes.”

Richard drew a long breath, and she feared he was angry. Then he spoke, slowly, as if to convey his deliberateness. His gaze never wavered from her face.

“I never wanted to die. You deserved to live, and I thought it was one or the other.”

“So you don't hold it against me?”

“Are you crazy? I have my life back. And this time, I don't intend to live it lying down.” He struggled to push himself up on his elbows.

“Hey, you don't have to—”

“Mark my words,” he interrupted. “I will fight to destroy that psycho if it's the last thing I do.”

 

 

When Galileo called her and Richard up to the top deck for a private meeting the next day, Isabel felt privileged. In less than a week on the ship, she'd learned how in demand Galileo was—every researcher wanted his ear. In a few words, he explained his master plan. It was ready. Now he just needed their help to execute it.

She excitedly rolled Richard in a wheelchair from his cabin to the elevator. He was gritting his teeth from the effort of simply holding up his head. A paper hospital gown clung to his bony figure, covering his bandages, and a white chenille blanket lay draped across his lap. Despite his obvious infirmity, she couldn't help thinking that he looked manly. Maybe it was the sheer determination in his eyes, or his complete lack of self-pity.

“You okay?” she asked. “Do you want to delay this a few days?”

He glanced up at her, and she knew there was nothing he wanted more than to go on with the show. He didn't have to say anything for her to nod and wheel him out of the elevator and onto the top deck.

While she was feeling stronger every day, he was recovering more slowly because of the additional surgery to correct his heart blockage and stenosis, performed by a cardiothoracic surgeon on board named Dr. Powell. The good news was that his prognosis was excellent. When he learned he had a future beyond age forty-five, unlike his father and grandfather, he'd turned to Isabel with glassy eyes.

If he could walk, she was sure there would be a hop in his step. So it was no wonder he couldn't stand to lie in bed, especially given their vendetta against a mysterious—and lethal—criminal.

Through the glass walls of the deck, they could see the gleaming blue sea stretching for miles in every direction. The ship had sailed far enough out that the island of Key West appeared no larger than a coffee bean on the western horizon.

They greeted Galileo, who was sitting at a white leather booth around a table that had once been part of a cocktail lounge in the ship's former life. A polished white bar a few feet away had been converted to storage space for lab equipment—microscopes lined the shelves instead of martini glasses; bottles held hard chemicals instead of hard alcohol. Empty leather booths next to theirs formed a perimeter around a parquet dance floor. A disco ball still hung above it, sprinkling silver flashes like confetti around the expansive room. Once Isabel and Richard took their seats at the table, Galileo gave them a mischievous grin.

“Check this out.” He opened his clenched palm.

In it, a breathtaking oval ruby in a gold band glowed like a drop of deep red Merlot. It was rimmed by what seemed to be tiny twinkling diamonds.

“It's certainly flashy.” Isabel snatched it, inspecting its perfectly cut edges. “Looks real. Feels real.”

Galileo smiled. “Good sign if a woman approves.”

Richard plucked it out of her palm and turned it around with two fingers. “Do you think it will work?”

“I think it's our best shot,” Galileo said. “As long as you're willing to do your part.”

“I'm all in,” Richard declared, setting the ruby ring on the table. His elbow brushed against hers as he reached for the cell phone in Galileo's other hand.

“You sure you're up for this?” Galileo eyed the paper hospital gown draped over his bandaged chest. “We can wait—”

Richard shot him a look as if to say
Are you kidding?

“Fine,” Galileo said, surrendering the phone. “I had to make sure.”

“I'm ready.” There was no trace of his typical cynicism—only steely resolve.

Sitting beside him, Isabel realized how lucky she was that he had made it. Before his arrival, there'd been practically nothing to go on: The shred of black cloth lodged in her mouth from a scuba diver's suit—certainly not enough to ID whoever had drowned her, or who that person might have been working for. Then there was the mastermind's voice on the phone. He could be anyone, anywhere. But Richard had dialed him so often to make deals, he knew the number by heart.

Even with the Network helping her, she shuddered to think where she would be without Richard. Together they were real survivors, hell-bent on justice.

Galileo's blue eyes were laser-focused on him. “You're good with the script?”

“I got this.” His voice was firm, but Isabel wondered whether he could actually pull off such a bold scheme, which Galileo had described moments before.

She watched Richard punch in the number for the man who called himself Robbie Merriman—though there were hundreds of people named that, and no way to differentiate among them.

Richard clicked on the speakerphone as it rang. Once, twice. She gritted her teeth. If no one answered, they'd be back to square one. Three rings. Four. Five. She traded a dismayed look with Galileo—right before a gravelly voice barked into the silence:

“Who is this? I don't appreciate blocked calls.”

“Robbie,” Richard said. “It's me. Richard Barnett.”

“Well. Look who's still kicking. So much for our last deal.”

“The one where you promised not to touch Isabel? Yeah, so much for that.”

“What are you talking about?”

Richard sighed. “Cut the crap, Robbie. I get it. She screwed you over. You just want to collect.”

Static came over the line—and the sound of quiet breathing. Isabel stared at the phone, as if that could help her decipher the man's reaction. How badly they needed him to cooperate!

“Look,” Richard said smoothly. “I know what happened, but I'm not interested in justice.”

“I still don't know what you mean.”

“Sure you do. It's my fault for making you a shit deal in the first place, so I've put together a better offer to make it up to you.”

Robbie's sarcasm was thick with hostility. “A new fall guy?”

“No one has to die this time. I have two million bucks in hand as we speak.”

There was an ugly snort. “You don't have a rat's ass.”

“
I
don't. But I'm close with a wealthy entrepreneur in Silicon Valley, we grew up together in Florida. He's a hardware guy, has a patent on a chip in Apple computers. I told him about your fund's solid returns. He wants to invest long-term, but doesn't want his money traced. You know, capital gains and all that.”

A pause. Was it hesitation? Then: “I don't do business with outsiders.”

“You'd be doing business with me. And I'm sitting here holding a rare Vietnamese ruby, three carats, worth two-point-one million. Take it or leave it.”

“What do you get out of it?”

“You agree never to touch any of the ‘lives' I sold you again.”

“How could you think I would do such a thing?” Robbie's voice was a singsong of deliberate irony. Isabel steamed, biting her lip to keep silent. A string of curses blared through her mind.

“So it's a deal?” Richard pressed.

Robbie's tone abruptly grew severe. “With one contingency.”

“What?”

Now he sounded as though he were smiling. “Your precious Isabel has to deliver the ruby in person. Alone.”

A cold tingle bristled over her arms. This was not part of the plan.

She looked at Galileo, who nodded once. His mouth was a hard line, his expression inscrutable. What mess was he getting her into? Did she really trust this man she barely knew, even if his Network had saved her life? But there was no time to ponder. Richard was already closing the deal . . .

“Fine,” he was saying. “Where should she meet you?”

Robbie gave a humorless chuckle. “Not me. I'm not an idiot, Richard. She'll leave it at a drop-off point in Manhattan. There's a couple old cannons at the Soldiers and Sailors Monument in Riverside Park. She can put it inside the mouth of the northernmost one.”

Galileo wrote something on a piece of paper and slid it to Richard.

“She can be there in three days,” Richard said.

“Make it five p.m. sharp. Once I receive it, and I know you aren't bullshitting me, I'll call to confirm the transaction.” His voice was cold. “You already have your receipt.”

After Richard gave him a call-back number for Galileo's untraceable satellite phone, the line cut off without a good-bye.

Isabel stared at the phone.
You already have your receipt.
Robbie's subtext was chilling. The receipt was her life. She dug her front teeth into her bottom lip.

“This guy is seriously disturbed,” she said. “I'm not sure if I want to put myself out there like that . . .”

A sharp yearning struck her like a physical ache. How she longed for the simple problems of her old life, before her mother fell ill, before she met Richard, when all she had to worry about was surviving a week in one harsh climate or another. With a camera crew of tough guys watching her back, she knew she was protected, no matter how threatening nature could be. But nothing about this crisis was natural. Where was her safety net now that she had to do the bidding of a homicidal maniac?

“We won't let anything bad happen to you,” Galileo said, inserting the ring into a snug black box that snapped closed. “Once you're part of the Network, you're family.”

“But what happens when he realizes it's a fake?” she cried. “What's he going to do to me then?”

Richard covered her hand with his own. The confidence of the gesture took her aback. They had never touched before, not in any meaningful way. But what surprised her even more was that she liked it, the way his agile fingers squeezed hers. Or maybe she was just frightened out of her mind and desperate for human contact.

“It will be okay,” Galileo said, unfazed. “We'll watch out for you.”

“But why have me deliver it? What does he want from me?”

He shrugged. “It doesn't matter. We're one step ahead of him. Trust me.”

There it was again—the command that triggered her bitter resistance.